Page 27 of The Cruiser
ChapterEleven
The ungodly hourof seven a.m. is new to me, but after passing out early last night and sleeping hard, I’m rested and ready. I think. Yesterday’s lunch was quite the exposé session. Morgan’s ambitious, with plans to expand his design services to include homes and private jets. He’s one of a handful of designers under age thirty-five who are up for a prestigious award at the Genoa yacht show. He also wants Khaled’s deal badly. It would be game changing, a career breakthrough. After surfing on my iPad last night and scoping out the other two designers he said are in contention, it’s clear to me that his work is head and shoulders above both. The commission should be his for the taking. But he’s obviously docked in a few too many ports and ruffled some feathers. Like most industries, the yacht business is small once you get inside it. Morgan makes no apologies for who he is—and on the surface, I admire that. When it comes to PR though, being the Larry Flynt of the yacht world is problematic.
I have my work cut out for me.
On the drive to Genoa today, I plan to dive deeper into strategy. Morgan’s picking me up at eight, so I order a cappuccino and croissant—when in Rome and all that—jump into the shower, and catch up with TQ via Facetime, applying makeup as we talk.
“Twenty euros for a coffee and pastry?” TQ’s shocked when he hears the room service rates. “I hope that comes with a lap dance.”
“Welcome to Monaco,” I say.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m in my jammies eating yesterday’s chow mein, watching Dancing with the Stars reruns. Trés depressing.” He holds up two chopsticks with limp noodles dangling off the ends, and I notice his glitter eyeshadow is smudged from a night of clubbing.
I flick on another coat of mascara. “What happened to that guy you were seeing?”
“What happens to any of them? One new twink on the block, and off they go.”
“You’ll be happy to know I did your recon.”
He gasps. “Already? Did you get a photo?”
“Just a visual.”
“And?”
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Full package.”
“Fuck!” he yells. In a miserable voice he adds, “I hate you. I hate you and Vaughn, leaving me alone to wither and die in LA.”
“That reminds me. Have you heard from Vaughn? I emailed him on Monday about this whole deal and not a peep. He threatened to be in touch every day.”
“Nope,” TQ says, shoveling more noodles into his mouth, apparently stress eating after my news. “I hope he’s not lion carnage somewhere.”
“Don’t say that. I’m concerned.”
“Maybe he’s actually enjoying himself.”
I make a cringey face. “Don’t tell him this, but I never even considered that.”
“Of course you didn’t, it’s Vaughn. Work is the only thing he enjoys.” He chuckles morbidly. “By the way, your bathroom is making me cry. It’s bigger—”
“Bonjour,” a muted voice calls out from the door of the suite. “Service de chambre.”
I pause mid-bronzer application. “Can you hold on a sec? Room service is here.”
“Eat your gold-filled croissant and we’ll talk later,” he mutters. “I need to go to bed and lament what’s become of my life.”
We say our goodbyes and I approach the door, tightening the towel around me. After a creepy experience in Vegas once, I don’t let strangers in my room anymore. “Hello. Bonjour,” I say, raising my voice to be heard through the door. “Do I need to sign anything, or can you leave the tray outside?”
“Nothing to sign, madame,” the attendant replies. “Everything is paid for. Au revoir.”
I wait a few minutes, then open the door. Wrapped in a towel, it’s sufficient coverage for a quick in and out. But as I reach down for breakfast, the phone spills out of my hand, slick from my body lotion. It bounces off the tray and lands on the other side of the hallway. In my knee-jerk reaction to rescue it, I rush forward, both hands reaching for my lifeline.
After that, it all moves in slow-motion.
The towel snags on the European-style hook door handle. Off balance, I stumble over the tray. The towel slips off inside the suite and whoosh, the pneumatic door slams shut.
In a frozen, deer-in-headlights moment, my lungs close in. Blood stops pumping. Sounds disappear. Funny how quiet a hotel hallway is when you’re alone in it.
